


Beneath a Clear Blue Sky

by EarendilElwing



Series: Beneath the Sky [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blood, Character Deaths, Dealing With Loss, Denial, Grief, Illness, M/M, Memories of Past Lives, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reincarnation AU, Retrospective, Tragedy, bagginshield, implied PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-06-09 21:13:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6923581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EarendilElwing/pseuds/EarendilElwing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frodo Baggins visits his ailing cousin for what might be the last time.  To his surprise, Bilbo has one last story to tell...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Faces

**Author's Note:**

> This (three part) series was Inspired by the art of Tumblr artist Hilariously-infuriating. All art is used with permission.
> 
> Part One based on: [Reincarnation Bagginshield Comic](http://hilariously-infuriating.tumblr.com/post/132666438808/there-i-fixed-it-sort-of-am-i-forgiven-side)
> 
> My Tumblr if you feel like following: [Story Updates and Writing Resources](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/earendilelwing-stories)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There were so many small scraps of unfinished projects featuring the mysterious figure, that Frodo was compelled to pick up one of the drawings. “Who is this?” he asked, a hint of a teasing chuckle in his tone.
> 
> “That,” said Bilbo, snatching the paper back, “is Thorin Oakenshield.”

He had no idea how long he had been standing there, gazing motionless at the bright green door of his cousin’s house.  He had meant to reach the little homely cottage in time for afternoon tea, but it must be past that by now.  He had his phone, but he could not confirm the moment of his arrival or count the number of minutes that had passed since then.  In his mind, he felt that the seconds had stopped, and he had trespassed into a realm where time meant nothing.

Though in truth, time meant everything, because there was so little left.   It was entirely possible that it was too late.

He could not decide what scared him more: the prospect of potentially waiting beside the deathbed of his favorite relative, or walking in to find that he had already slipped away – all alone – without the presence of a loved one who would mourn him and without bidding a last goodbye.

Try as he might, he could not pick up his feet and take the necessary steps forward.

Perhaps this was the denial stage his parents kept talking about.  If he didn’t venture forth, he could pretend that this wasn’t happening.  If he turned around right now, he might just catch the next bus back to the other side of town.  He would wait, as he did every evening, for his cousin’s upbeat texts, asking about his day, or offering snippets of life advice to help guide him through his tumultuous teenage dramas, augmented by a healthy dose of sarcasm and good-natured teasing.  On Friday, one would call the other, and they would make plans for their next Sunday get-together.

If the weather was nice (as it happened to be right now), they would have brunch in the back yard beneath the oak tree and have deep discussions about literature, current events, philosophy, or the latest gossip concerning their more unpleasant relations.

Or, depending on the time of year, they may participate in local community events or regional festivals.  They’d stuff themselves on samples of ethnic cuisine and deep-fried fare, while taking in the culture and pride of the people they met.

If snow or rain prevented them from engaging in outdoor activities, they’d settle inside with hot drinks and snacks.  Occasionally, they would watch movies, but more often than not, he would ask his scandalously adventurous cousin to tell him stories of his travels, supplemented with the many photo albums arranged on his bookshelves.

How many Sundays would they have left, if this wasn’t his last?  Had he taken for granted that they would always have this?  Had he heard all of his cousin’s stories and experiences, that he might immortalize him by passing them on?  Had he thoroughly memorized the expressions and quirks that made him who he was, that conveyed more than words ever could?  Were there adequate records of his likeness and voice, to prove, when the years lengthened, that this wonderful person had, in fact, existed – had loved and laughed and lost?

He should find out; he should make sure of it.  But he lacked the courage to do so.

His cousin, as always, did not.

The dull, round knob turned, and the door swung inwards.

“Frodo, my dear boy,” wheezed a weak, but chipper voice.  “Just how long are planning to stand there?”

Somehow – he could not imagine how – Frodo managed to muster a small smile. “Bilbo…”

“Come in; come in, why don’t you?” Bilbo beckoned, waving a hand.  “It’s bad form to keep an old man waiting, you know.”

Frodo laughed bitterly at that.  “You are not so old, Bilbo.  You’re barely thirty!”  But he finally stepped across the threshold and removed his jacket.  He hung it on one of many pegs on the wall.

Bilbo closed the door behind them.  “Oh, you know what I mean!  This confounded syndrome or what have you has ravaged my body enough that I _feel_ like an old man, and I have a full lifetime of memories stuffed in my head.”  He turned and hobbled down the hall towards the sitting room with Frodo close at his heels.  “And I am old enough to be grumpy and impatient when it comes to wayward teens.”

“I think that’s less to do with age and more to do with personality,” Frodo griped, though with no true irritation behind it.

“Bah!” Bilbo scoffed.  He began to putter about with a tea tray while muttering to himself incoherently.   

Frodo lingered in the doorway, watching him pour their drinks and arrange scones on a plate for them to nibble on.  A familiar feeling of warmth settled in his chest, though it was also twisted with a sharp pain.

The nostalgia of these simple, ordinary tasks evoked such comfort for him, such a sense of belonging and of being cherished.  Bilbo’s cottage felt like home, almost as much as his parent’s house did, because in it dwelt someone whom he loved, and who loved him in turn.

And yet there was a poignant reverence permeating the atmosphere now, a holiness that was nearly palpable, foreshadowing the impending end.  For Frodo, it was heavy, almost suffocating.  There were weighted irons bound around the heart in his chest, dragging it down to lie in the pit of his stomach.  His rounded posture hunched further under the knowledge of the coming sorrow, and the myriad of questions, protestations, and half-hearted banter remained stuck in the cords of his throat.

He watched still, when Bilbo, satisfied that everything was arranged to his liking, placed a hand on either side of the tray.  The china rattled ominously as Bilbo struggled to lift it, and Frodo perceived that his arms were shaking.

It was enough to spur him into action, but it also increased his melancholy.  “Oh please... allow me,” Frodo insisted, hurrying to relieve Bilbo of his burden.

“Ah, thank you my lad,” Bilbo consented, huffing a little.

Frodo took it as a troubling sign that his stubbornly independent relative did not refuse his aid.  

Bilbo gradually eased himself onto the couch, settling in as upright and rigid as possible.  For a reason he had once named, though Frodo loathed thinking of it, Bilbo liked to ensure he did not often yield to the plush temptation of comfortable rest.  

Frodo carefully set the tray upon the small table before them and took his own seat beside him.  

“Excellent,” Bilbo beamed, rubbing his hands together.  He took charge of dividing the cups, saucers and plates between them.  “There now... you’re looking well.  A bit on the skinny side according to the family standard, so to speak, but I suppose that’s to be expected at your age.  Remind me again, how old are you?”

Frodo knit his brows to glare at him.  “I will be sixteen in September, as you well know.”

“Dear me!  Will you really?” Bilbo exclaimed in a rare burst of energy.  “Well then, I imagine your parents will be planning a big celebration of fantastic proportions.  It’s one of those few ages where you’re allowed a special magnificence, and no one can scold you for it.”

“I guess,” Frodo shrugged.

“You guess?” Bilbo returned.  “My dear nephew - you don’t mind that I still call you that, do you?  I know we’re biologically distant cousins, but I’ve always liked... well, nevermind about that.”  He paused to take a cautious sip of his tea.

“When _I_ turned sixteen, my mother’s old friend Mister Stormcrow turned up and set off the most amazing fireworks of his own design,” Bilbo reminisced.  “They were spectacular!  I’ve never seen their like anywhere else in the world.  You should think about having some on _your_ birthday.”

Frodo lifted his eyes from staring at the untouched cuppa in front of him.  “Don’t you mean _our_ birthday, Uncle?”

The quiet emphasis with which he said this seemed to startle Bilbo, because he sputtered into his drink, having taken that unfortunate moment to partake.

Realizing that this had triggered one of his fits, Frodo lunged to take the delicate china from Bilbo’s hand and moved closer to pat him on the back.

Bilbo bobbed his head gratefully when he relinquished the cup and saucer and reached for his pocket handkerchief.  He immediately put it to his lips and released choking gasps which were swiftly followed by hacking coughs that wracked his whole body.  It was several minutes or so before they subsided.

When he had finished, Bilbo wiped his mouth and folded his handkerchief back into the pocket of his waistcoat.  He tried to be discrete about it, but Frodo caught a glimpse of the ruby red droplets that stained the embroidered white cloth.

“Uncle Bilbo…” he mumbled.

Bilbo snorted and took up his tea again.  “Now, now… don’t you give me those sad puppy eyes.”  His voice was quite raspy and weedy until he had soothed his throat with a few sips.  “Frequent attacks are to be expected at this stage of the whole thing; there’s nothing for it but to ride it out.  It’s really not so bad, you know.”

Frodo clenched his hands and cast his gaze downward.  “Maybe not for _you_.  But it’s painful to watch.”  He curled in on himself.  “Especially since I know I can’t save you.”

A tender touch to his cheek coaxed him from his internal self-deprecation.  “My dear Frodo,” Bilbo whispered, “I am sorry to have caused you such pain.”  He sighed and put away his tea, so that he could lay his hands over Frodo’s.  “But you must learn to accept that my time has come.  This life may have been shorter than my last, but it has been sufficiently filled, for the most part.  I do not need to be saved.”    

Tears welled up in Frodo’s blue eyes.  “I will miss you, Uncle Bilbo…”

“I know,” he replied.  He slung an arm around Frodo and pulled him to his breast, allowing the teenager to cuddle up at his side in the same way he once did as a small child.  And he did not resist when Frodo clung to shirt and began to weep.  Bilbo rubbed his back and murmured, “There, there now.  It’s alright.”

Frodo knew that the act was meant to a succor him in his dread and grief, but it made him cry harder.  “How can you be so calm in all this?” he sobbed angrily.  Questions that he had contemplated and kept locked away in his soul since learning of his cousin’s terminal illness poured from his lips.  “How can you leave us without putting up a proper fight?  Do you not _wish_ to live?  Is there nothing you will miss?”

“Oh, hush… hush love,” Bilbo cooed, though he let Frodo cry for as long as he wanted without reprimand, and Frodo took full advantage of the offering.

When at last his tears diminished and his sobs were little more than quiet hiccups, Bilbo pushed him away and wiped the tears from his eyes.  “All right then?  You got it all out?”

Frodo sniffed a few times but said and did nothing to answer.

“Now then, if you’re ready to listen, then I will try to satisfy your questions,” Bilbo told him.  “First of all, I was not always so calm, as you supposed.  When the doctor first told me of my condition, I reacted just as you have.  I was confused and scared and angry - sometimes all at once, sometimes in quick succession.  It is a perfectly natural reaction that any might have, and I am no anomaly.

“After I processed all that I had been told, I of course took the appropriate course of action.”  Bilbo’s demeanor hardened just a little, and his voice was stern as he added, “Please do not accuse me of not doing all in my power to seek a cure.  I sought second, third, and even fourth opinions on my diagnosis; I consulted numerous medical experts, spent countless hours reading and researching any data I could lay my hands on, and followed every directive I was given to prolong my life.  But it was still all for naught.”

Bilbo smiled sadly and took one of Frodo’s hands in his own again.  “You know, one of the reasons I adore you so is because we’re much alike in many regards.  We have both dreamed of grand adventures beyond our sleepy little hometown, and we have a natural curiosity for the outside world, cultivated by the stories we’ve read in books or seen in movies and media.  And I have been fortunate: I was able to fulfill most of my dreams to see the world beyond those books and maps we’ve poured over together.

“And yet – I am sorry to say this Frodo – but in some ways, we have been deceived by our fantasies.  Our favorite stories frequently lead us to believe that we are invincible, that our goals can be achieved through hard work and perseverance.  And when difficulties arise, we have only to fight on, and simply _believe_ that we can overcome any obstacle presented.  But that is not the case.”

“What do you mean?” Frodo asked.  He rubbed his red-rimmed eyes with his free palm.

“My Frodo,” Bilbo said gently, “If it were in my power to, I _would_ resist this and live on, for your sake at the very least, for I do love you.  But the power of life and death is not given unto me _or_ you.  When our time comes, it cannot be gainsaid, not matter our wishes.  We can hold on to a degree, but choice only takes us so far, and there is no magic in it to save us.”

“I guess I understand,” Frodo mumbled.  “But that doesn’t make it any easier.”  He took Bilbo’s silence and the squeeze of his hand as an acknowledgement of that truth.

The conversation between them halted at this interval.  The teen guessed that since Bilbo had already made peace with his fate, he was content to wait for Frodo to continue or end the exchange, taking whatever course would best ease his sorrow.

But well-meaning words, even those from the soon-to-be deceased himself, were not an effective balm for his wounded heart.

The same hesitation that stalled him at the front door redoubled its grip.  If there was nothing to be done, what more could he ask?  All of the questions that had circled round and round his head, questions about Bilbo’s life and experiences, became a dull hum in the wake of one vital point: would the pain of Bilbo’s passing lessen if Frodo guarded his heart against knowing him deeper, or would it increase from the regret of a missed opportunity?

Frodo took a quick breath once his thoughts settled on that single word - _regret_ \- and he had his answer, along with his first line of questioning.

His voice and frame was somewhat steadier when he worked up the nerve to say, “Bilbo, in everywhere you’ve gone, in everything you’ve done... is there anything you’ve left unsaid, or undone?  Is there anything you regret?”

“Other than having to say goodbye to you?  Hmm...” Bilbo glanced up thoughtfully.  “Everyone has regrets, of course, but I suppose there’s only one thing I’d wish I’d done, or rather, I wish I had understood better before it was too late.”

“And... what is that?” Frodo prompted after a pause.

Bilbo glanced sideways at him and did not respond at first.  Instead, he worried his bottom lip with his teeth and muttered incomprehensibly, as he was wont to do in moments of indecision.  He crossed his arms, rubbed his chin and tilted his head this way and that with each consideration.

They made little sense to him, but Frodo did manage to catch snippets of phrases such as: “No, perhaps not…” or “Well, what if I…”, and finally ending with “But then again, why not?  Why shouldn’t I tell him?”

When he made up his mind, Bilbo nodded, clapped his hands upon his thighs, and pushed himself up with effort.  “Frodo, there’s something I wish to show you, if you are amenable.”

Frodo unfolded from his curled position and got to his feet.  “Of course, Uncle.  What is it?”

“It’s in the study.  If you’ll come with me…”

Frodo’s interest was quite peaked by this invitation.  Bilbo had always been an esteemed gentlemen and an excellent host whenever he had company.  Therefore, he did not deny his guests anything they might desire, and he freely offered all of his possessions and nearly the whole of his house to their service.

The only area that had ever been off-limits was his personal study.  He never did so during normal hours or when he was entertaining, but Bilbo was in the habit of shutting himself up there at times, and none knew what secret projects or discourse engrossed him so.

Frodo’s curiosity dimmed when he saw Bilbo sway a little and put a hand to the wall as he led the way to the mysterious room.  Frailty and fatigue were common companions of his illness, and they made themselves known at their leisure.  Consequently, Frodo closed the distance between himself and his cousin and made ready to brace Bilbo against a fall if necessary.

Thankfully, the caution was unwarranted; they reached the study without incident.

Bilbo was a little out of breath by the exertion, but that did not stop him from grinning at Frodo.  Nor did it dampen his spirit; he opened the door with something of a dramatic flourish and reveled in Frodo’s undisguised awe.

The usual furniture and accoutrements of a typical study room were arranged throughout.  There was a mahogany writing desk and a cushioned chair, a tall bookshelf overflowing with classical literature and reference books, and writing utensils and papers scattered all around the floor in a charmingly disordered fashion.

What Frodo had _not_ expected to find was a blank canvas upon an easel, oils and watercolor paints, brushes, drawing pens and walls adorned with exceptional paintings and black-and-white illustrations.

“Did you do these, Uncle?” Frodo asked, stepping closer to examine them.

“Indeed I did,” Bilbo replied.  “Not up the standards of the art world as a whole, but they served their purpose well enough for me.”

“I think they’re beautiful,” Frodo countered.  His cousin might be right in saying that they would not have been highly sought-after commodities by snotty collectors, but their subjects were wonderfully represented.

Bilbo lifted a shoulder in an unconcerned manner, but Frodo could tell that he was pleased by the compliment.

While the older man took a seat at his desk, the younger took the unspoken liberty of studying each one as long as he liked, though he withheld further questions for a time.

The first was bright and cheerful, and invoked the same comfortable welcome that Frodo always experienced whenever he visited Bilbo.  It depicted a remarkable little dwelling surrounded by a vibrant flower garden, a wooden fence and a cobblestone path leading up its entrance.  The house looked to be set under a hill beneath a tall tree, and it had a round door.  This door was the same shade of green as the one on Bilbo’s cottage, and had a strange, angular symbol carved near its bottom edge.

Another near to the first was a cartoonish depiction of a dragon lying upon a bed of gold coins, precious gems, and jeweled instruments.  It was a small print, and certainly adorable, but Frodo did not linger over it.

The next two were large landscapes, both painted with watercolors using very subtle but uniquely contrasting color palettes, meant to enhance the disparity of their subjects.  The first displayed a rich, fertile valley, rendered in warm shades of green, gold and red; the second was a solitary, majestic mountain peak, imposing with its cool blues, violets and whites.  Though the portraits themselves were vastly unalike, they both had a surreal, almost hazy quality to them, like a fond memory of a half-remembered dream.

One wall of the study was dedicated to images of a more abstract nature.  Frodo craned his neck at different degrees and swiveled his head, trying to decipher their import, but he could not.  He presumed that they must have some specific significance to Bilbo that he did not necessarily wish to make so plain.

There were a few others, arranged according to a system that likely only had meaning for Bilbo, but Frodo’s attention was at last drawn to single portrait hanging directly over the desk where his cousin was seated, likewise gazing at it.  

It was the clearest representation of its intended portrayal, the most meticulously detailed, and the most vibrant and beautiful.  It was an oil painting of a rather handsome man, with long, flowing hair, a close cropped beard, and stunning blue eyes.  He was dressed like a hero from a fantasy movie, in armor and a fur-lined coat, and his gloved hands grasped the hilt of a sword.  It was snowing in the background, and the somber tone of the painting seemed to match the mountain landscape he had observed earlier.

When Frodo moved a little nearer to the desk, he noticed that there were partially finished sketches strewn across its surface.  Upon closer examination, he realized that every one was meant to be the man in the painting - detailed doodles of his features: the crinkle of his eyes, the braids in his black and silver hair, variations of a smile, or practice patterns of his armor.

There were so many small scraps of unfinished projects featuring the mysterious figure, that Frodo was compelled to pick up one of the drawings.  “Who is this?” he asked, a hint of a teasing chuckle in his tone.

“That,” said Bilbo, snatching the paper back, “is Thorin Oakenshield.”

Frodo’s eyes widened in recognition of the name.  “The dwarf king from your fairy tales?”

Bilbo sighed heavily.  “Frodo my lad, there is something about my life, and my stories, which I have never revealed to anyone.  Part of the reason for it is because I refused to see things for what they were.  I didn’t _want_ to know, and I did not heed how it might apply to me in _this_ life.”

“I don’t understand,” Frodo confessed.

“Neither did I,” Bilbo agreed.  “But why don’t you have a seat here by me, and I shall tell you of the little pieces I _do_ know.  Mind you, they are disconnected at best, only fragments of the times I was most affected, but perhaps we can make sense of it together.”

Since there were no extra chairs in the little room, Frodo sat cross-legged on the floor before his cousin, his face eager with expectation and excitement, which caused Bilbo to smile fondly down at him.

Such an arrangement harkened back to Frodo’s early childhood, wherein they would take up these exact positions, often surrounded by other children, and Bilbo would regale them with an outlandish tale about his travel adventures or a story of his own composition.

Though still young, _too_ young to succumb to a deadly illness, he was correct in his earlier declaration that he had lived a full life, bursting with invaluable experience.

Bilbo was fluent in multiple languages and had served as a translator for a variety of corporations, organizations, government agencies, and even the military.  This profession had enabled him to escape the cozy but boring region in which they were born, and travel wherever he would.  He had many interesting, and often comical, accounts about his journeys and the funny people he had met along the way.

Moreover, he was a master narrator, with the uncanny ability to describe every setting with just enough detail to put his audience in the scene as though they were there, experiencing events exactly as Bilbo had, though with a more mature recollection.

Frodo could scarcely recall how many hours were spent at the feet of his dear cousin, absorbing every ounce of knowledge, true or fanciful, that he would impart.  Once more, it brought back the remembrance of the weight of intention and sacredness in the time they shared together.  Moments like these, which were once so commonplace that they might have been taken for granted, were blessings, and Frodo resolved to treasure every second of it.

Bilbo must have sensed Frodo’s reverence, because he did not speak during the intermittence of his reflection.  But eventually, he shook his head and resumed his sanguine attitude.  He leaned over to open one of the desk drawers between them and rummaged through it.  A sharp rustling told Frodo that it was filled with stacks of paper; Bilbo filtered through the leaves until he found the ones he wanted and offered them to him.

The teen knew from their weathered and wrinkled state that they were old, and this was further confirmed when he saw what they were - a series of childish scribbles in faded crayon.  A handful of them might have been precursors to the paintings that hung proudly throughout the room.  Most them depicted strange creatures with unusual hairstyles and clothes that were similar in style to those worn by the noble Thorin Oakenshield.  However, it was not easy to discern what they were meant to be, as they were rendered by a child’s hand.

“Uncle Bilbo?” he inquired after waiting for an explanation.

He did not say anything right away.  There was some conflict in the turn of his lips and the wrinkle of his brow, but Frodo did not know the cause for his internal debate.

But at length, Bilbo breathed deeply, leaned back in his chair, and began, “The first thing I remembered was faces... so many faces of people I didn’t know.”

He folded his hands in his lap.  Then he kicked the floor lightly to swivel his chair towards the wall.  His gaze met the intense countenance of Thorin.  “And... yours...” he whispered to the stoic figure.

* * *

 Even as a child, Bilbo Baggins did not think of himself as anything extraordinary.  He generally had the same likes and dislikes as the rest of his peers, and tended to take a middle-ground approach in his free time, harmoniously blending physical activity with intellectual pursuits.  And like any youth, he could be quite contrary in that as soon as circumstances or governing bodies sought to dictate his actions, he would of course rebel and complain against those imposed constraints.

Such was the case on a dreary autumn day, when Bilbo was six years old.  It had been sunny and pleasant earlier in the week, but he had chosen to spend the majority of _those_ days indoors, reading the new books his mother had brought him from the library.  Now that it was raining, however, he wanted nothing more than to be out of the house.

“Oh no you don’t, mister!” his mother scolded when she found him putting on his boots.  “You’ll get sick if you go out in this cold.  Plus, I’ve just finished cleaning, and I’ll not have you getting dirty and tracking mud all over.”

“But I want to play outside!” Bilbo whined.  “I’m wearing my coat and gloves and boots!  And I won’t get dirty; I promise!”

Belladonna’s expression softened at her son’s trembling lip.  “I’m sorry dear.  It would have been better if you had taken advantage of the sunshine yesterday.  As it is, I must insist that you stay inside today.”

Bilbo slumped to the floor, pouting.  “But I’m BORED!” he sighed dramatically.  “What am I supposed to do?”

“You can watch cartoons for a bit,” Belladonna permitted.  “And after, why don’t you read your new books?”

“I read them already,” the boy claimed.  Nonetheless, he obeyed her and reluctantly removed his outdoor garb.

Unfortunately, it did not take long for him to tire of the television and books, and without a proper outlet, his pent up energy began to turn to destructive pursuits.  At first, he flittered back and forth between the toys in his bedroom, which involved a great deal of stomping up and down stairs, and trying to find something to do in the living room, where his mother was knitting and he could be near her.

He felt his eyes on her every time he re-entered the room.  She always smiled at him, but he recognized the steel regard that warned him of her need to concentrate, and for him to behave.  

He honestly tried his best, but he just could not control the impulse to move around.  He brought a bucket of building blocks into the room and constructed and destroyed great towers with an excess of noisy sound effects.  When he’d exhausted that avenue, he stood by his mother’s chair, rocked back and forth on his feet, and inquired over and over what she was doing and why until she shooed him away.  Finally, he settled on a game of “Hot Lava”, leaping across various pieces of furniture to avoid the boiling floor and testing the finality of his mother’s patience.

“Alright, enough.  That’s enough now, Bilbo!” she announced, rising from her place.  She intercepted his jump between the loveseat and Bungo’s armchair and set him down, “killing” him and ending his sport.

Bilbo drooped at her exasperated tone and bit his lip, eyes downcast.  “Sorry, mama,” he muttered.  He swung his arms from side to side and swayed.  “I didn’t mean it.  But I’m SO - ”

“ – Bored; I know, dear.”  Belladonna pinched the bridge of her nose and winced.  “But I’m not feeling very well today, and I need you to be silent for a little while, okay?”

Bilbo looked up and saw her knead her temples.  “Does your head hurt?” he asked.  Without waiting for a reply, he rambled on, “Do you need medicine?  Or chicken noodle soup?  Maybe some tea?  Can I help?”

Belladonna chuckled at her son’s enthusiasm and ruffled his unruly curls.  “I think my head would feel better if there wasn’t so much noise.  Do you think you could help by finding something quieter to occupy yourself?”

Bilbo wrinkled his nose, but nodded solemnly.  “Okay.  What should I do?”

She made a show of musing over the quandary.  “Hmm.  Well, my headache is starting to hurt my eyes a little.  And do you know what would make them hurt less?”

Bilbo bounced on his toes in anticipation.  “No.  What?”

“Something pretty to look at.”  She covered her face with her hands.  “Oh, if _only_ there was some beautiful art around here!  I’m sure it would heal my eyes of this pounding pressure.”  She peeked at her son through her fingers.

Bilbo screwed his eyes and nose in thought.  Then his mien alighted with elation.  “ _I_ could make you some art, mama!  I could color some pictures to heal your eyes!”

Belladonna dropped to her knees in grateful supplication.  “Really?  You would do that for me?”

“Yep!  You wait right there!”  Quick as a flash, he bounded back up the stairs to get his crayons and paper, returning with both in less than a minute.  Belladonna reclaimed her chair and her knitting as Bilbo dumped his box of colors on the floor.  He flipped open a pad of paper and flopped to lie on his belly facing it.

“What should I draw, mama?” he wondered, glancing over his shoulder at her.    

“Whatever you want, son.  Maybe… try drawing something different.  Make it colorful… and cute.”

Bilbo frowned and tapped his lips with a black crayon, a little hard-pressed to think of something that fit the stated criteria.  Colorful and cute were no problem, but his usual subjects of family, friends, school, flowers or the house didn’t qualify as “different”.

He might try to copy something from one of his new books.  His mother had given him a few with funny fantasy creatures: knights and princesses, dragons and unicorns, elves and dwarves – something similar might make her eyes stop hurting.

He could do a dragon, a red one that breathed fire and stole away beautiful maidens to eat.  

But then again, dragons were like snakes, and snakes were scary.

Perhaps instead, he should draw an elven knight – tall and fair, with a shining sword.  He could have red hair, and maybe he’d be missing a hand that he’d lost in battle against a monster.

Bilbo shook his head and discarded that idea as well.   _‘Mama doesn’t like blood_ ,’ he thought, which he would of course to be obligated to add if the knight was disfigured in such a way.

Maybe a dwarf would cheer her and help her head.  The ones in the book were stout and strong, and they wore hooded cloaks and gold jewelry.  He could draw a bunch of them and give each one diversely colored hoods so that his mother could tell them apart.  

Deciding that to be the best course, Bilbo bent his head close to his paper, his nose nearly touching the white leaf.  He started with a very basic design - the muscular outline of his first sturdy dwarf.  That completed, he exchanged his black crayon for another lying near at hand, which happened to be a sort of greenish brown, and added a tunic and boots.  

‘ _Fur on the collar,_ ’ he decided, with no real forethought.  He grabbed an assortment of brown shades and drew a series of lines around the shoulders and neck to simulate this.  Next, he took Slate Grey, and drew metal things, ‘ _Knuckle Dusters’_ , on the dwarf’s hands.  

Satisfied with the clothes, Bilbo backed away a little and stared at the blank outline of where the face was going to be.  He barely had time to consider his options before a clear picture formed in his mind: intimidating eyes, a dark brown beard and mustache, long hair in the back but bald on top, and a series of stipped tattoos across the skin of his head.

Acting upon the strike of inspiration, Bilbo gathered the appropriate colors and filled in the space exactly as he saw it in his head.   His tongue poked between his teeth at intervals when he was concentrating especially hard, and he turned the page around and around to work at it from different angles.

When he was done, he held it up to review his work, twisting his head like an owl and deliberating on whether or not he should add more detail.  Unable to reach a conclusion on his own, he pushed himself to his knees and rotated to look at Belladonna.  

“Look, mama!” he exclaimed, waving his drawing pad.

She glanced up from her knitting and leaned forward, straining her eyes.  “Oh – let me see, Bilbo.”

He hopped to his feet and skipped over to show off his work.  “It’s a dwarf!” he declared.

“Oh my,” his mother replied.  “He’s um… he’s a sour-looking fellow, isn’t he?”  Her hesitation hinted at some level of concern for the odd subject.

Bilbo was unaffected by it.  “He has to be tough, so he can fight monsters and protect his friends.  But he’s really very nice once you get to know him.”

“That’s… well… I suppose I’ll just have to take your word for it dear.”

Bilbo nodded and went back to his spot.  “Don’t worry; I’m going to draw his friends too.  They’re happiest when they’re together, you see.  They’ll make you feel better, mama.  I promise.”

“If you say so,” she said, haltingly.  

Bilbo glanced up to see her peering at him curiously.  She did that sometimes, but he did not understand why.  He briefly pondered what he might have said or done to trigger the reaction now, but ultimately attributed it to her hurting head and eyes.  With that conclusion, he tore off the top page of his paper pad and started on another drawing.

The next design came easier than the first, as did the third, the fourth, and so on.  One by one, he churned out fourteen distinct illustrations, and his passion increased with each.  His little fingers danced across the pages; crayons were thrown about in a sort of frenzy as he struggled to keep up with the steady flow of images unfolding from unknown recesses in his being.  

At the start of each, he knew precisely how the characters should look without any debate whatsoever.  Before he even touched the tip of his crayon to the paper, he saw the finished product in his thoughts, and recited key components aloud to aid his concentration.

“This one has a white beard…”

“Oh, I almost forgot his funny hat…”

“Was it an ax in his forehead or a knife?”

“Hair shaped like a star…”

“I think his robes were grey.  Or were they white?”

Over an hour passed in this manner.  Bilbo became so engrossed his task that he did not remember his previous boredom, nor did he measure the passage of time spent on this tranquil, stationary activity - so at odds with his former uncontrollable energy.  He failed to notice his mother bending over him to observe his progress or going into the kitchen to prepare their lunches.  And he did not stop to think on the source for all these wild fancies or the desperate fervor that had overtaken him in his bid to record all that he conceived.

At last, Bilbo set aside a dark blue crayon (nearly worn down to a little nub), sat up, and surveyed the spread of pages around him.  His eyes lingered on every picture in turn, and he had the sudden sensation that he was looking at friends, as close and dear as his cousins and schoolmates, perhaps more so.  Why on earth he should feel such a thing perplexed and frustrated him.  They weren’t real after all.

He tore the final page from his notebook and looked into the deep blue eyes of the last dwarf.  They looked familiar somehow; he was sure that he had seen them before – in nightmares and in daydreams.  They bore into his very soul, sometimes with a mad wrath that threatened to devour him whole, but most often, he remembered a tenderness that made him feel beloved beyond the riches of the world.

Bilbo sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.  His own eyes filled with tears.  Finally, his head started throbbing as sadness overtook him, and he cried out for the pain that touched his heart, body and spirit.

“MAMA!” he screamed.

Within seconds, Belladonna reappeared in the living room and, upon seeing his distress, gathered her son in her arms.  “Bilbo!  What’s wrong, my pet?  What happened?”

Bilbo didn’t answer.  He _couldn’t_ answer.  

He hugged the drawing of Thorin Oakenshield to his chest, buried his face in his mother’s embrace, and sobbed for the loss and emptiness he could not comprehend.


	2. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo gasped and stumbled back, for the face of the lifeless man was one he knew all too well. It was the very same that had taken up residence in his mind when he was a child and had become a permanent scar upon his heart. But he had never seen him like this, had never seen those stern and beautiful eyes so petrified and dim, nor a body, once so strong and steady, broken and beaten beyond healing. The sight of it shattered something inside of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, the chapters are meant to flow unbroken from one to the next. Originally, I had this written as one long story, but I thought it might be overwhelming to read and decided to break it up.

That very same drawing was now clutched in Frodo’s gentle grip as he compared it to the portrait on the wall above them.  Though years of practice and training had refined the skill of the hand that had drawn it, there was an unmistakable resemblance between the two; the same individual, the same Thorin Oakenshield, was represented in both.  Whoever, _whatever_ he was, he had been a fixture in Bilbo’s life since its earliest days, and had remained a persistent presence, a spirit that haunted his innermost being.

“Who is he, Uncle Bilbo?  How do you know him?”

“That, my lad, was the great mystery!” Bilbo rejoined, throwing up his hands.  His eyes were bright, and he relished in the attention granted by his story telling.  Regrettably, his animated motions were inadvisable for one in his condition; he gasped with a start and struggled to restrain the urge to cough.

He pounded a fist against his sternum and cleared his throat a few times.  He continued, “Anyway, from that point on, those faces, Master Oakenshield’s there in particular, became a constant shadow over my thoughts and a thorn in my heart.  They visited my dreams at night, and by day, I found myself searching for their features in everyone I saw.  As time went on, more faces swam into focus, until my mind was full to bursting with the knowledge of people I had never met.”  Bilbo stopped short again and gulped on air with a quick inhale.

Another attack overtook him, swift and violent, and this time, he was powerless to suppress it.  He clapped a hand to his chest and doubled over in his chair, overcome by the pain of his brutal-sounding coughs.  He managed to secure his pocket handkerchief over his mouth just in time to prevent any blood from splattering, but there was no consolation to found in such a victory.

“Bilbo!” Frodo shifted to his knees and reached for him uncertainly.  “Bilbo, what should I do?”

Bilbo kept his face downcast, but held up a hand to warn the teen away.

Frodo was reminded of his cousin’s prior assertion that he could only “ride it out”, but he was unwilling to sit by without offering assistance.  Assuring Bilbo that he would be back, he hurried to the kitchen for the only remedies he could think of: a cool glass of water with a touch of honey and a damp washcloth.

Frodo’s stomach churned and twisted itself into knots as he prepared them.  It was difficult enough to witness these unpredictable convulsions, but every subsequent spell was more vicious than the one preceding it.  Bilbo may have been more or less unperturbed by his condition at this stage, but it made Frodo sick to see the crisp white of the handkerchief turn a dark crimson, the increasing pallor of the man’s skin, and the decline of his overall vitality.

By the time he returned to Bilbo’s side, the fit had subsided enough for him to sit up again, but he was leaning against his desk, head drooping and wet curls sticking to his forehead.  Red lines were smeared beneath his nostrils and around his lips.  He was panting, and his eyes were clamped shut.

“Uncle,” Frodo whispered.  He shifted on his feet until Bilbo opened his eyes and smiled at him.

“Oh... so sorry about that, my lad,” he breathed, his voice rattling.  He nodded when Frodo handed him the water and cloth.  “Thank you.”  

Bilbo set his saturated handkerchief on the desk and dabbed the warm washcloth against his face.  The contents of the glass were emptied with a series of unbroken, desperate gulps.

“Uncle, you have...” Frodo gestured to his face and hands.

Bilbo followed Frodo’s horrified gaze to see that his hands were smudged with blood.  His smile waned until it was took a slightly morbid and morose appearance.  “Goodness, I’ve made a right mess of things, haven’t I?  This won’t do at all.”  Using his desk as leverage, he sluggishly stood up.  “Excuse me for a moment while I go wash up.”  He straightened and moved towards the door, but as soon as he let go of the furniture, his gait wavered.

Without hesitation, Frodo grasped his arm at the elbow and wrist to steady him.  “Here - lean on me, and I’ll help you.  It’s okay.”

Bilbo halted his steps and turned his face to look at him.

An unexpected change in his expression startled Frodo when their eyes met.  Bilbo’s, which had always been so radiant and intense in the shifting of his moods and sharp with wisdom and intelligence, were unfocused and clouded, as if in a trance.  There was sorrow and shame there, with a grief that seemed borne of mistakes and misdeeds.

“Such a good boy,” he was murmuring, likely more to himself than to Frodo.  “Too good to have carried my burden.”

“You are not a burden, Uncle Bilbo,” Frodo assured him.

His eyelids fluttered.  He exhaled loudly and gave one tiny shake of his head.

The moment passed, and Bilbo’s eyes were clear and present again.  He grinned with self-deprecation and rested his arm around Frodo’s shoulders, taking care not to transfer the evidence of his illness onto the teen’s clothes.  “Thank you again, Frodo.  Shall we then?”

Unnerved as he was, Frodo complied and assisted his elder to the restroom to wash.  It was alarming how quickly Bilbo had grown weak and unsteady, and dread of what these signs meant darkened Frodo’s mood.

Bilbo let go of him to lean against the sink when they reached their destination, but Frodo made sure to stay close at hand, just in case something dire should occur as a result of his withered state.

Bilbo turned on the cold fawcett and proceeded to splash his face, adding soap after a few waves to remove the blood from around his mouth and from his hands.  Once he was clean, he shut off the water and accepted a towel from his ever-helpful nephew.

Frodo observed that the shock of the icy liquid must have done him good, as Bilbo’s posture improved, but his gaze remained upon the sink, and he did not speak.  Frodo looked in the same direction, unsure if Bilbo was thinking or if his attention was caught upon something.

Standing out against the gleaming white porcelain were a few remaining tendrils of crimson tributaries, each becoming diluted with water until they formed a pink ring around the drain, thereafter vanishing.  Bilbo reached in and dipped his finger in what remained.  He brought this hand close to his face and rubbed the drop of watered-down blood between his thumb and index finger, a contemplative countenance upon his features.

“The second thing I remembered was blood...” he whispered.

Frodo edged closer to him, fearful of his state of mind.  “Bilbo, maybe you should rest,” he advised.

Bilbo went on as though he hadn’t heard him, returning to the story he had begun in the study.  “The smell, the taste, the feeling of it on my hand...”

* * *

 Bilbo groaned when the soda vending machine refused his bill for the upteempth time.  He removed it from its slot, tried once again to smooth it out, and re-inserted it.  The machine accepted the wrinkled bill, considered it, and spit it out.

He swore and snatched the money back.  He jammed the cash back into his jeans pocket and kicked the appliance.

“Bilbo!  Settle down!  That’s no way to behave!”

He whirled around and instantly bowed his head in the wake of his mother’s wrath.  “Sorry, ma,” he grumbled.

Belladonna rolled her eyes.  “Impetuous teenage boys,” she sighed.  She reached into her purse and produced a crisp, pressed bill and donated it to her son.

“Thanks,” he said.  He submitted it to the stubborn machine, glaring a warning at it, but it accepted the tender.  He made his selection and turned over the change to his mother.  “How’s Prim?” he inquired.

Belladonna shook her head.  “Progressing at a slow rate, I’m afraid.  Poor Drogo is beside himself with worry.”  

“Aren’t we all?” Bilbo agreed.  He took a drink of his soda.  

His mother set a gentle hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze.  “These things take time.  Not every child is as eager to enter the world as you were, dear.  Why, I had barely woken your father to let him know my water broke before you started crowning.”

Bilbo wiggled his nose distastefully.  “I want to be here for Primula and Drogo, but I don’t need to hear the details of childbirth, thank you.”

Belladonna laughed heartily.  “No, I understand it’s not something you care to think about.  At any rate, it looks like we’ll be here for longer than we thought.  Maybe you should go outside and get some air.  I can see you’re getting restless, and there’s no use in pacing around the waiting room.  I’ll text you if there’s any change.”

“Yeah, alright,” Bilbo mumbled.  

He took the hospital elevator back down to the first floor and located the nearest exit.  He kept his eyes fixated on his shuffling feet, avoiding contact with other patients and their families.  He wasn’t apathetic towards their plights, but his pregnant cousin’s slow and painful labor was first and foremost on his heart.  

Primula and Drogo had been trying to conceive for several years, and while they had finally achieved their dream, the nine-month road that had led up to this evening had been fraught with complications and close calls.  If they lost the infant here at the end, when they were so close...

Bilbo lightly slapped himself for even flirting with the possibility.  They would be fine; the baby would be fine.  His favorite cousins were strong, and their child would be no different.  There was no need to worry.

The automatic double doors slid open with a resounding bell.  He was welcomed by a brisk, September breeze and an evening sky alight with vibrant colors.  Bilbo smiled and took a full, steady breath, glad to be temporarily free of the whitewashed walls, the hyperawareness of every tick of the clock, and the excessive smell of antiseptic.

He’d never liked hospitals much (not that he knew of anyone who did).  They were meant to be place of healing, where the sick and injured would find sympathy and treatment for their ailments, but there was always a sinister undertone of unavoidable finality present in such places, which no amount of flower prints and positive proverbs could disguise.

Furthermore, it called forth feelings of apprehension and injustice in Bilbo that he could not truly define.  He only knew that there was an impression of wrongness that followed him and a guilt that overshadowed him.  

But to be fair, the perception that things were not as they should be was not new to him.  It struck him at the oddest of moments; the most recent example was the curious conclusion that he was meant to be the eldest of his distant cousins, that although Drogo and Primula were almost ten years older and far more mature than him, he occasionally thought of them as children in his mind.  It was the latest in a long string of wild theories with no basis that he could contrive.  

Bilbo looked away from the darkening sky and shook his soda can, likewise shaking off his queer musings.  His mother hadn’t texted him, but he did not want to be away from the gathering for too long.  He should return and find out if there had been any progress with the birth.

He tipped his head back and downed the rest of his drink.

He was just about to head back in when, out of the blue, he heard the roar of an engine drawing near at breakneck speed.  Bilbo inclined towards the noise.  Headlights came into view around the corner of the hospital parking lot and blinded him at their approach.  He winced and threw up an arm to shield his eyes from the glare.

A vehicle was coming nearly straight at him.  He didn’t think to step back, but thankfully, the oncoming car swerved at the last minute, and its driver slammed on the breaks, which produced deafening, high pitched squeals.

A dark sedan came to an abrupt stop directly in front of Bilbo, and a college-age youth leapt out from the driver’s seat.  The white t-shirt beneath his open, blue button-down was stained with a thick, red substance.

The man lunged at Bilbo, grabbed ahold of his shoulders, and shook him.  “Oh god!  Please help me!  My boyfriend... he’s been shot!  Please!”  He pulled the teen towards the passenger side of the vehicle.  

Bilbo was completely out of sorts, startled by the sudden proceeding, so he did not resist the stranger’s force.  The man let go of him to open the car door and bent to reach inside.

True to his word, there was another young man sprawled in the passenger seat, unconscious and covered in blood.  His head hung limp and low at an angle, and he gave no response to his boyfriend’s pleas.

The driver glared at Bilbo frantically.  “Help me, please!” he screamed again.

“Oh dear, um...”  Bilbo was unqualified to be of any real assistance, but the man’s desperation and the energy of the moment dulled his initial apprehension.  He shoved aside his misgivings and crouched next the unresponsive youth.

Together, the two of them made short work of pulling him out of the car and laying him upon the cold ground.  Once free, the driver pulled the passenger into his arms and started to chant a name.

“Ah - hold on!  I’ll get help!”  Bilbo turned and sprinted back into the hospital.  

The next few minutes were a bit of a blur for Bilbo.  Later, he recalled that he ran to the closest receptionist and raised the alarm.  Shortly after, he led a group of nurses and a trauma doctor to the injured man, but he made sure to stand out of the way of the professionals as they converged around and assessed the victim.  The panicked driver was also shoved aside.  He was forced to answer a few basic questions, but then he was mostly ignored.

The wounded boy was lifted onto a gurney that had  been fetched by a pair of nurses.  Finally, the team of medical experts and their patient rushed back into the building and vanished, leaving Bilbo and the unsteady boyfriend standing there, alone and in shock in the unforgiving evening air.

Bilbo shuffled uncomfortably and rubbed his arm, waiting for the man to say or do something.  He had expected that he would follow his ailing partner, but he remained frozen on the spot.

“Uh… sir?  Aren’t you going with them?”

The man did not say anything.  He stumbled and fell to his knees.

“Hey!  Are you alright?”  Bilbo dashed over and knelt beside him.  He examined him from head to toe and discovered that the blood on his shirt was partially his own.  On the right side of his abdomen, there was a small tear in his shirt, through which a single bullet wound could be seen.  Evidently, the stranger had been so concerned over the state of his boyfriend, he had either deliberately ignored his own injury or had forgotten it.

“Oh god, hey!  Hold on!”  Thinking fast, Bilbo removed his sweater and folded it.  He pressed the fabric against the bleeding skin, trying not to gag at the raw appearance of it.

There was something vaguely familiar about this.  The action of trying to staunch a severe laceration did not feel foreign to him; it seemed like he had done this before, but he could not summon a recent memory of it.

Bilbo shook off the fleeting impression and debated what he should do in this situation.  The most appropriate course of action would be to run back into the hospital for additional assistance, but he did not want to leave the poor guy alone.  He was awake and alert, but he might not remain that way much longer.

“We need to get you inside.  Can you walk?” Bilbo prompted.  “What’s your name?”

The man gave a jerky nod.  “Mablung,” he slurred.

Bilbo frowned, wondering where he might have heard that name before.  It had no real value, so  he guessed that he simply read it in a book somewhere.  “My name is Bilbo Baggins,” he introduced.  “Come on; put your arm around me, Mister Mablung.”  Bilbo positioned himself next to him and guided the man’s limb to wrap around his shoulders.  He gave a great pull to help him stand while keeping pressure on his stomach.

“That’s it.  There we go.  Here, lean on me and I’ll help you.  Urk!”  He faltered beneath Mablung’s surprisingly heavy hand upon his shoulder and the weight of the body he was attempting to support.  “Okay, one step at a time now.  Keep talking to me okay?  What’s your boyfriend’s name?”

Mablung’s pace slackened as they went along, and the pressure on Bilbo increased with each step.  “Bel-Beleg,” he stuttered.

“Beleg, huh?  Okay Mablung… think about Beleg, okay?  Stay strong for him.  We’re almost there.  You’re going to be alright.  You’re going to live; I promise.”

_“You’re going to live…”_

Bilbo hesitated, sure that he had heard a voice whispering nearby.  But there was nothing; only the two of them were within the vicinity.

He shrugged away the auditory apparition and ushered Mablung into the hospital, guiding him to the nearest check-in area.  “Hey!  Someone help!  This guy’s hurt too!” he yelled.

Straightaway, another group of nurses descended upon them.  A male nurse in light blue scrubs took over bracing Mablung for Bilbo while the next available trauma doctor and his assistant fetched a second gurney.

A woman in a green uniform approached Bilbo.   “Are _you_ alright?  Any injuries?”  She pointed at the stains on his clothes and hands.

“What?  Oh, no.  It’s not my blood.  It's from helping Mablung.”

The nurse eyed him doubtfully, but took his word for the time being.  “I see.  Well, due to the nature of his wounds and that of his partner, it was necessary for us to call our onsite inspector to investigate what happened.  He will likely have a few questions for you, and we may need to collect your clothes for possible evidence transfer.  However, your parents or a legal guardian must be present.”

Bilbo tried not to look uncomfortable and anxious, though he was beginning to feel overwhelmed with both.  “Um, okay.  They’re here, actually, in the maternity ward – Bungo and Belladonna Baggins.  My cousin Primula is having a baby.”

“Ah, I see,” she said, accepting his statement.  “I will go and fetch them along with the inspector.  In the meantime, please follow me.  I’ll take you to a private waiting room.”

She deposited Bilbo in a cozy room away from the main areas.  Its décor consisted of a loveseat, several plush armchairs, a small table with matching stools, and a television.  She told him that it was an area reserved for families waiting for news of terminally ill patients.  Fortunately, it was empty, and he would not be disturbed.  She left him with instructions to sit, but that he should avoid touching anything or moving too much, lest he contaminate either the room itself or any valuable data that could be gleaned from his clothes.

After she had gone, Bilbo carefully eased himself onto one of the stools by the table and attempted to process everything that had just occurred.  It had all happened so fast; he’d hardly had time to consider the consequences.

He wondered what had happened to the two young men – why they had been attacked.  He hoped that they would recover, and the person or persons responsible for their injuries would be caught by the police.

His thoughts shifted from speculating on Mablung and Beleg’s plights to the bizarre sense of déjà vu that had caressed the edge of his consciousness.  It was not unlike the emotions that stirred whenever he dwelled on the enigmatic entities that had revealed themselves in his childhood fantasies.  He tended to ignore them when he could; he had far more pressing matters to deal with at fifteen than he did at six, but there were some instances that could not go unheeded.

Bilbo turned his hands over to inspect his palms.  Despite using his sweater as a barrier, he had still gotten a fair amount of blood on them and a little on his clothes as well.

Without warning, a jolt of recognition flashed through him, and he flinched as though someone had struck him.  For a second, he saw his hands covered, _dripping_ in blood rather than spotted with drying flakes.  The rest of senses were equally assaulted: the soiled skin of his fingers was slick and sticky, the tangy, metallic air was closing in around him, and his tongue was coated in salt and iron.

An ear-piercing shriek echoed in the distance.  Bilbo sprang from his chair, eyes wide with terror, and he glanced about.

More screams followed the first, accompanied by the roar of a furious crowd, the ringing clink of steel upon steel, and the sickening snap of severed limbs.  Bilbo’s head darted back and forth in every direction, listening to each noise as it reverberated in his ears.  He took measured steps backwards as if to hide or flee from the source of such terrible sounds.

And then there were voices: horrified shouts, mad accusations, grim observations and whispers of anguished lament.  They were far off in the distance; no – they were right beside him; they surrounded him.  They were many and varied, all of them distorted, and he understood few of the words and less of their meaning.  The only ones he could make out amidst the wailing screams and agonized moans was one that sounded suspiciously like his own, and another that countered him with no discernable order.

_“What is that?”_

_“You won the mountain.  Is that not enough?”_

_“I am the king!”_

_“You are changed, Thorin!  The dwarf I met in Bag End would never have gone back on his word!”_

_“Never again will I have dealings with wizards!  Or Shire rats!”_

The clamor intensified.  At times, different voices broke in, less warped than the others, but he was unable to focus on them.

Bilbo covered his ears with his painted hands and clamped his eyes shut, endeavoring in vain to smother the noise.  He retreated back towards a corner of the room.

_“One day it’ll grow.  And every time I look at it, I’ll remember…the good, the bad… and how lucky I am that I made it home.”_

“Bilbo?”

_“I am betrayed!”_

_“I-Is this treasure truly worth more than your honor?”_

Had the room always been so cold?  His hair stood on end, and his flesh was roused with goosebumps.  Every desperate intake of air stabbed his lungs.  

Bilbo’s spine pressed against a wall; he slid down to cower in a ball.

_“I am so sorry that I have led you into such peril…”_

_“Is this a good place to stand?”_

“Bilbo, what’s the matter?”

_“Farewell, Master Burglar…”_

_“Thorin… hold on!”_

_“It is a gift, a token of our friendship.”_

His breath was coming short and fast.  His head was pounding, threatening to split his skull.  He whimpered and pressed his hands harder against his ears and temples to control the pain.

“What’s going on here?”

“Bungo!  What’s wrong with Bilbo?”

_“Plant your trees, watch them grow.”_

_“You have to leave here!  Azog has another army attacking from the north!”_

_“Bilbo!”_

“Bilbo!”

_“No, no no!  No!  Thorin… don’t  you dare!”_

_“If more people valued home above gold, this world would be a merrier place.  But sad or merry, I must leave it now.”_

_“Thorin… Thorin... THORIN!”_

The voices and the throbbing in his head stopped.  

Bilbo cautiously opened his eyes.  He rose to his feet.

A harsh winter sun glared over a barren, ice-covered terrain.  An eery stillness had descended upon the land and, confused though he was, Bilbo allowed himself to relax the tiniest bit.  He looked around in an effort to discern where he was.  

His eyes were drawn to a dark mass on the ground near him.

A man – no – a _corpse_ was lying at his feet.  The creature was dressed like a warrior of old, but his armor was torn asunder, exposing a cruel and fatal wound.  A pool of blood surrounded the form, like a grotesque halo, and every inch of visible skin was colorless.

Bilbo gasped and stumbled back, for the face of the lifeless man was one he knew all too well.  It was the very same that had taken up residence in his mind when he was a child and had become a permanent scar upon his heart.  But he had never seen him like this, had never seen those stern and beautiful eyes so petrified and dim, nor a body, once so strong and steady, broken and beaten beyond healing.  The sight of it shattered something inside of him.

He wanted to cry.  He wanted to wail and curse this man who had become so ingrained in his most intimate thoughts.  He wished to forget this horrible feeling of utter heartbreak and loss and emptiness.  He craved to escape this desolate void of suffering.

As if in answer, a low growl stayed his thoughts.  Bilbo looked away from the deceased figure and lost every remaining shred of composure.

Stalking towards him was a gang of hideous creatures, their bodies deformed and their countenance radiating malice and madness.  Their skin was a sickly white, and even from a distance, Bilbo could smell their foul odor.  All of them were brandishing grimy, crooked blades at him and gnashed their sharp, yellow teeth.

Bilbo yelped and turned to flee, but the monsters charged and surrounded him in the space of a few seconds.  Their slimy, claw-like hands grabbed hold of his arms and legs, struggling to restrain him as he kicked and flailed and screamed.

They screeched at him in an ugly and indiscernible tongue.  One of them snarled a threat directly in his ear and raised a filthy dagger over his head.

Bilbo fought harder.  He pleaded for mercy and called for help, but there was none who could hear him.

The dagger came down.  He clamped his eyes shut.

The dagger bypassed his skull to pierce his arm.  He felt a sharp prick in his bicep.

And everything went dark and silent.

* * *

 A low, rhythmic beep was the first thing to greet his return.  Light and warmth were the succeeding sensations, both from the comfortable embrace of a soft bed and snug blanket.  Awareness slowly crept its way back into his mind and body.

Hushed whispers on either side coaxed him from the residual remnants of sleep.  He stirred and stretched.

“Bilbo?” probed a deep male voice.

He opened his eyes and found his father staring down at him.  “Dad?”  The man smiled and nodded.  He leaned away and pulled out his phone.

“Oh thank goodness!” exclaimed another.  His mother’s face came into view.  “Bilbo, are you alright?”

He yawned and propped himself up on his elbows.  “Yeah... I think so.”  He glanced around and identified his current location as a hospital room, and at some point, he had been redressed in his navy blue pajamas..  “What happened?”

Bungo and Belladonna exchanged concerned looks.  Bilbo took the opportunity to sit all the way up as they deliberated on their answer.

His father offered the first account.  “Actually, we were hoping you would tell us.  The best we can figure, or at least what the doctor thinks, is that you had a panic attack of some sort, probably triggered by trying to help those boys.  But...”  He trailed off, seemingly withholding something he feared would distress them.

Bilbo’s mother, who was not in the habit of mincing words or speaking delicately, took over from there.  “The thing is... you kept screaming about ‘orcs’, and someone named ‘Thorin’.  You were so upset.  They had to call in a couple of orderlies to try and calm you down, but ultimately, they had to sedate you.  You’ve slept all through the night and most of the day today.”  She paused, and then elaborated, “The peculiar thing is… one of the nurses said that your behavior was more like that of someone who was having a hallucination or flashback, but none of us have a reasonable explanation for that.  Neither you, nor anyone else in our family has a history of any kind of mental disorder or severely traumatic experiences.”

“Indeed,” agreed Bungo, though there was discomfort written in his visage and shifting movements. He crossed arms and stared down at Bilbo thoughtfully.

Belladonna sat on the edge of the bed, facing Bilbo.  He tried to look away, but she cupped his cheek with a soft hand to keep his attention on her.  “Bilbo, your father and I love you with all of our hearts.  And there is nothing that you can ever say or do that would change that.  If there’s something bothering you… if there’s anything you need to tell us… we’ll always be here for you.”

Bilbo swallowed.  He closed his eyes and pressed his face more firmly against her palm, his hand coming up to touch hers.  “It’s… it’s nothing, mother.”  He tried to smile.  “It’s like the doctor said: I saw all that blood and I just… panicked, you know?  I’ve never seen anyone so hurt before.  Oh!  Speaking of which, you wouldn’t happen to know what happened to those guys , Beleg and Mablung, would you?”

Belladonna pulled her hand away from his cheek.  She shared another wordless glance with her husband.

Finally, she sighed and touched his hand.  “Oh my love.  I’m so sorry to have to tell you this but… they didn’t make it.”

“I spoke with the inspector earlier today,” Bungo chimed in.  “Apparently, those two boys volunteer at a youth center for kids in foster care.  One of their charges – well, he wasn’t right in the head.  They think he might have been under the influence of an illicit substance and mistook them for a threat.”

Belladonna shook her head.  “The poor dears.”

All three of them ceased talking, their personal reflections and opinions regarding the events of the previous night negating the need for conversation.

For his part, Bilbo was filled with the same apprehension he had experienced during his ordeal.  He had no basis for believing it, but he could not quite convince himself that the visions and dreams that afflicted him were the result of an overactive imagination or freak anxiety attack.  But what could it be otherwise?  Even if he now had a name to go with one of the faces, nothing else held any substance for him, except for the fleeting feeling that he was forgetting something… that he should _remember_.

Bilbo fisted his hands around the fabric of the hospital blanket.  He scrunched his nose and clenched his jaw.

No… it wasn’t true.  The doctor’s apparent assumption must be correct – he’d went into hysterics or something.  

The only other plausible possibility (though still rather farfetched) was one he would not dare consider.    

Just then, there was a loud rap on the door.  It opened enough for a dark, curly head to poke in, and a merry voice laughed, “Knock, knock!”

Bilbo sat up straighter and grinned, glad for the intrusion.  “Drogo!”  His parents greeted the newcomer too.

“Ah, you _are_ awake, cousin!  Feeling up for some visitors then?”  Without waiting for an answer, Drogo pushed the door open with his shoulder and backed in, pulling a wheelchair with him.  As soon as he was clear of the entrance, he turned around, allowing the woman in the chair to see him.

It was Primula of course, free of her labors at last, freshly showered and wearing a pink bathrobe over her hospital gown.  In her arms, she held a squirming, swaddled bundle.

“Prim!  You’ve had the baby?” Bilbo cried, ecstatic.

“No; after eighteen hours, I gave up trying to push out my own and decided to steal someone else’s,” she deadpanned with a smirk.

Bilbo rolled his eyes.  “Har har!”

“Yes, I had the baby,” Primula giggled, “while you were out.”  Her mien became more serious, and she asked, “Are you alright, Bilbo?  Your parents told us what happened…”

He shrugged and made a motion with his hand to deflect attention away from his perplexing predicament.  “I’m fine; feeling right as rain.  But never mind that!  What did you have?”  He titled his body forward to try and catch a glimpse of the newborn.  

“It’s a boy!” answered Drogo proudly.  “Six pounds, thirty-two ounces.”  He pushed Primula’s wheelchair closer to the bed.

“Would you like to hold him?” she invited.

Bilbo looked at both new parents to confirm permission.  “Can I?”

At their simultaneous confirmation, he threw off his blanket and sat as upright as he could manage, legs crossed on the bed and barely containing his excitement at the prospect of meeting his new cousin.

Drogo bent before his wife.  Ever so delicately, she transferred their baby into his arms.  Once his own grip was settled, he stood and approached Bilbo.

“Mind his head,” Primula advised.  Drogo passed him into Bilbo’s waiting hands.

The teen cradled the child against his chest, fully supporting the head and neck as Prim requested.  He gazed down at his tiny cousin with undisguised awe.  

In Bilbo’s opinion, the boy had the same general appearance as any other infant, with few distinguishing characteristics, though he had no doubt that the child would grow into the prominent Baggins’ features.  There was already a little evidence of the curly hair that was so dominant in their ancestral heritage.  But even if it were not so, Bilbo knew at once that he would forever love this little boy, almost as his very own.

“What’s his name?” he murmured without taking his eyes away from the baby.

“Frodo Elijah Baggins,” Primula replied, a smile in her voice.

Bilbo’s affectionate grin diminished.  “Frodo?”

“Something wrong with that?” Primula demanded.

He glanced up and flinched from her defensive glare.  “What?  No, no!  Not at all,” he vowed.  “It’s a wonderful name…”

Little Frodo cooed and yawned, drawing everyone’s attention back to him.  He wiggled in Bilbo’s arms, his face turning towards him.  Then his minuscule eyelids fluttered partially open.  Vibrant blue eyes blinked up at him.

Bilbo was pierced to the very core of his being.   Broken words welled up in yet another fragmented portion of his spirit, and he nearly spoke them aloud.

_“I’m sorry I brought this upon you, my boy.  I’m sorry that... you must carry this burden.  I’m sorry for everything!”_

The contradictory sentiments of familial affection and grievous shame that defined his mood went unnoticed by the spellbound adults.

Belladonna maneuvered to sit beside her son.  She put an arm around him and kissed the side of his forehead.  “Happy birthday, Bilbo,” she whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued...


	3. Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo would never admit it, but deep inside, he knew that any attempt to escape the memory of Thorin was an exercise in futility. He was a shade that never dissipated, and a lost love to whom he was inexplicably bound.

“Wait - so all of that happened the night before I was born?”

“Correct,” Bilbo verified.  “I do not know if there was anything important to the timing, but the trials of that night advanced whatever had begun in my childhood.”

After cleaning up from the attack in the study, Frodo had escorted Bilbo back into the living room and made them a fresh pot of tea before they continued.  While he spoke, Bilbo would pause now and again to wet his throat and ease his tension; Frodo mindlessly consumed snacks and listened with rapt attention.

Frodo faltered from asking his next questions, trying to judge the episode with an objective frame of mind.  He replayed the fundamental facts of the tale in his head in to order extrapolate what it was Bilbo was telling him.

The moments of meditation also granted Bilbo some time to rest.  Evidently, though not surprisingly, the simple act of telling his story was tiring him.  He continued to cough at intervals, but he hadn’t had another full blown episode like the one in the study so far.  Nevertheless, he had slumped further and further into the sumptuous embrace of the sofa, until he was no longer sitting up.  Instead, he was leaning against one side, facing Frodo so that they could still speak, but his body half curled and braced by pillows as though he might take a nap.

“I don’t get it, Uncle,” Frodo said.  “What was happening to you?  Did you figure it out?”

Bilbo gave him a skeptical smile.  “You’re a smart lad.  Have you not solved the riddle?”

“Hallucinations?” Frodo guessed hopefully.  Like his “uncle”, he wasn’t quite ready to accept the only other explanation that accounted for all of the facts.  

He knew at once from Bilbo’s understanding expression that he inferred what Frodo would not say.  “I wanted that to be the case, for a long time.  But... I know better now.”

Bilbo sat up and took a deep breath.  “ _Memories_ , my dear Frodo - that is what they were, what they _are_.  Memories... of a past life.”

“You’re talking about reincarnation,” Frodo summarized.  “Uncle, do you have any idea what you’re saying, what kinds of implications that would mean?”  His voice got a little higher and louder as he went on.  “I mean, besides the whole life-after-death debate, you’re also telling me that the elves and dwarves and hobbits from your stories, not to mention _dragons_ and faeries and whatever else - they’re all real?  Do you know how that sounds?”

He eyed Bilbo warily, brooding over the incredible notion that ever-spiteful Lobelia Sackville-Baggins might be right about their capricious cousin’s stability.

Bilbo did not seem the least bit fazed by Frodo’s cynicism.  “Oh I know.  Believe me, I know.  Why do you think I kept it to myself all this time?  I understand perfectly well that such beliefs don’t paint me in the best light.  And I wish I could provide you with more concrete evidence to strengthen my claim.”  He shrugged.  “Alas, I’ve little more to offer you besides these personal revelations and a disposition that does not conform to or reveal the typical symptoms of any known mental illness.”

Frodo had to give him that.  At most, Bilbo was eccentric, but he did not exhibit the common behaviours one might expect of an unbalanced individual.  

“Assuming that I believe you - what did you do with all that?  I mean, how did you deal with having these _‘memories’_?”  He added air quotes with his fingers.  “What does it all mean?”

Bilbo hummed.  “Well, I was just as confused as you are now.  I had a few hypotheses to explain it - everything I mentioned before.  Unfortunately, nothing else made for a better or more logical interpretation for all of the facts.”

He sighed and reclined into the cushions behind him again.  “I’ll admit - what happened that night in the hospital, and the many similar cases that followed... It was frightening at first.  But... I got used to it.  The nightmares, the flashbacks, the faces of people long forgotten - I continued to live my life as if nothing was wrong, as if those memories weren’t mine... as if they meant nothing to me.”

“And you never told _anyone_ about all this?   Like Granny Bella or one of your friends... or a _doctor_?” Frodo implored.

“Oh come now!” Bilbo snorted.  “Would you - if you were in my situation?”

Frodo thought about it for a second and came to the same conclusion his cousin had.  As much as he loved his family, and though had trustworthy friends, he would not have been forthcoming with such an mystifying ordeal.

“They’d say I was crazy,” Bilbo stated for the both of them.  He smirked at the teen.  “And I’m sure that’s begun to cross _your_ mind, has it not?”

Frodo twitched and rubbed his arm.  “Well, I... um...”

Bilbo laughed at his expense, untroubled by Frodo’s skepticism, but it turned into yet another cough attack.

As before, Frodo rushed for the kitchen, refilling the same glass from earlier, but whether by luck or force of will on Bilbo’s part, there was no major mess when he returned.  Bilbo’s spare handkerchief was soiled, but not soaked, and he did not appear faint.

He recovered himself, drank the water and the last dregs of his tea, and leaned further back against the sofa, his eyes closing.

Bilbo sat motionless without speaking, almost torturing Frodo into dismayed agitation when he did not stir.

Over the last few months, Frodo had become accustomed to his ailing cousin’s need for frequent rest.  It was always disquieting, knowing the inevitable consummation that would one day (soon) come of his mini naps, but there was only so much that caffeine consumption and reassurances could achieve in allaying the family’s fears.  

He wondered if Bilbo would be aware of the twilight hour, wherein he would lay down his head and pass into sleep for the last time.  He had said that there was no choice in the matter, no way to resist death when its shadow descended.  But was it entirely unpredictable?  Would Bilbo sense the imminent oblivion and react accordingly as he deemed fit?  Or would he drift off, _believing_ that he would wake, only to succumb to the snare of the grave when his guard was down?

Moreover, was Frodo prepared for the possibility that he might, knowingly or unknowingly, witness his cousin’s final breath?

He was indeed used to Bilbo taking breaks or dozing lightly, especially during or after lengthy conversations, but something was peculiar about his short excursions today.  The funereal ambiance pervading their visit deepened as the day went on, but oddly enough, so too did Bilbo’s contentment and relief.  Frodo had the impression that the act of revealing these most personal secrets was a surrender, a release of something critical that tethered him to life.

And that, more than the incredible tale or the repercussions of it, scared Frodo.

“Uncle Bilbo?” he prodded.

No answer.

Frodo scooted closer and looked for the rise and fall of Bilbo’s chest and listened for the steady exhale of breath.  Finding neither, he immediately began to work himself into a frenzy.  “Bilbo?  Bilbo!”  He reached for the man’s shoulders, intending to shake him.

At the first touch, Bilbo cracked open one eye to glare at Frodo, catching him off guard.  “I’m alright, my boy - just a little worn out, that’s all.  Let me put my thoughts back in order.”

Frodo believed they should move the discussion to other matters, but the look on Bilbo’s face deterred him from suggesting it.  He collected himself and waited, his eyes fixed on his cousin.

* * *

 Bilbo kept his eyes shut, funneling his thoughts to fixate on the task at hand.  He stubbornly scorned the outside influences that were attempting to disrupt him, unwilling to give in to distraction.

He leaned fully into his worn and tattered chair, head tilted back and feet propped up on his sorry excuse for a desk.  A portable cd player was in his lap, and his thumb skimmed across the buttons.  He backtracked to the section of the song that was troubling him and pressed “PLAY”.

What began as soft, flowing ballad shifted in volume and mood, moving towards a tragic crescendo.  His brain raced to convert the foreign syllables into his own native tongue.    

_The green-clad maiden, strong and fair_

_hurried to the peak._

_Her knives were sharp, her bow - it sang_

_Her foes fell in heaps_

_With stone in hand and hope in heart,_

_a promise for to keep._

_A lord defied, a friend awaits..._

Bilbo frowned and hit “REPEAT”, listening intently to the lyrics of the song.  He mouthed along, but the shapes formed by his lips did not match the words playing in his ears.  He stumbled and paused over the last line again.

Was it friend or lover?   _Mellon_ , _melethril_ , _melethron_ \- he was getting the words mixed up (though he felt that he shouldn’t).

Of course, he’d likely have an easier time of it if he didn’t need to consciously ignore the pair of impish eyes that were studying him.

Against his former resolution, he groaned and yanked his headphones down.  He swung his feet off the desk and rotated his chair ninety degrees.  “Alright… what do you want?” he growled.

Two identical male faces stared at him with undisguised amusement from their positions on the bunk bed behind him.  Both were wearing the standard dark green campus t-shirts and faded blue jeans, but luckily they had distinct preferences regarding the best way to tie back their lengthy, dark hair.  This was generally the only trait that allowed their peers to tell them apart (unless, of course, they were pulling some sort of prank on everyone).

The one on the top bunk had pulled his into a simple ponytail, high enough to give his neck some breathing room but low enough for the thick strands to fall over and rest against his broad shoulders.  The boy on the lower bed kept his hair secured in a tight plait, bound by a rubber band with a blue silk ribbon tied in a bow around it - a gift from his younger sister, if Bilbo remembered correctly.

Both young men were tall and lean, their upper bodies well built from their hobbies – fencing and archery respectively.  They were athletic and intelligent, as well as kind and accessible, all attributes that made them the most popular students at the university.

Unfortunately for Bilbo, they were also naughty little troublemakers, immensely fond of causing mischief while (mostly) maintaining the dignified demeanor that had been ingrained in them by their parents.  As their current college roommate, Bilbo was a frequent target of their schemes, and he knew from their posture and the glint in their grey eyes that they were plotting again.

Contrary to their usual noble persona, both of them were lying on their stomachs, facing him with their legs kicked up in the air and chins cradled in the palms of their hands.  They looked like love-struck tween girls; the only thing missing were phones with spiral cords they could curl around their fingers while they gossiped about their newest crushes.

The boy on top, Elladan, raised his dark brows at Bilbo’s exasperated tone.  “Why, whatever do you mean?”

Below him, Elrohir arched up straighter and crossed his arms under his chest.  “We’re not bothering you, are we?” he asked innocently.

“As a matter of fact, you are,” Bilbo snapped.  “I have to finish translating this song for my Linguistics class on Monday, and after that I have five chapters to read for Nature and History.  Besides that, I still need to work on my midterm book report so that I stay on schedule with the project timeline.  So yes – you _are_ bothering me!”  He rubbed his forehead to dull the ache that was beginning to form there.  “I just can’t concentrate with the two of you staring at me like that.  Don’t you guys have a party to go to or something?”

“Oh sweet, naïve Bilbo… we don’t need to go TO a party.  We ARE the party!” Elladan declared.

“But since you brought it up,” Elrohir took over, “we DO have plans to go pub hopping tonight.”

“Good; that means I’ll have some peace and quiet to work.”  Bilbo spun his chair and scooted up to his desk again.  “I might get everything done on time for once,” he mused, grinning at this rare chance.

He pulled one of the open notebooks lying across his work space towards him.  Then he fished around beneath the scattered pages and stacks of books for a writing utensil, foolishly believing he would be left alone.

He should have known better.

There was a light thud, and then a strong set of hands came to rest on Bilbo’s slight shoulders, stopping his hunt for materials and his thought process.

“Now what kind of roommates would we be if we left you behind?” Elladan chided next to his left ear.  “You’re coming with us, of course!”

“What?  Why?” Bilbo whined.

“Because you work too hard,” Elrohir answered, appearing on the right side, opposite of his brother.  His hands came down next to Elladan’s.  “We worry about you.  If you don’t get out once in awhile, you’ll wind up in an early grave.”

Bilbo crossed his arms.  “Worried, my ass,” he snorted.  “You’re concocting something sinister, aren’t you?”

Elrohir maneuvered from behind the chair and knelt at Bilbo’s side to look directly at him.  “Do you doubt our intentions?”  His eyes widened, and his expression morphed into one of hurt alarm.  “Do you doubt our love for you?”

“He doubts our love!” Elladan wailed.

Elrohir smirked.  “Well, there’s only one way to remedy that,” he told his sibling.

Bilbo paled.  “Oh no, please!”

“Bear hug!” the twins cried.  With that, they threw their arms around him from their respective positions, Elladan leaning down to fully encircle Bilbo’s shoulders, pulling him close, and Elrohir clinging to him around the waist, nearly crawling onto his lap in the process.

“Ack!  Stop it!  Let go, both of you!”

Predictably, their crowded and compact positions meant that the feeble little desk chair was not properly balanced.  It tipped backwards, and all three of them went flying to the floor, with Elladan taking the brunt of the fall.

Neither of them released Bilbo upon impact.  They simply rearranged their tangled limbs around him, like they might take a nap with him between.  Elladan kicked the overturned chair away from the pile.

“Will you get off?” Bilbo griped.  He tried, with little success, to push the brothers away, but their grip on him tightened.

Elladan set his chin atop Bilbo’s head.  “Not until you accept that we love you and have nothing but the very best motives.  Right, Elrohir?”

The younger twin snuggled close, his cheek pressed against the right side of Bilbo’s chest.  “Eh... I don’t care anymore.”  He sighed contentedly.  “Bilbo, you’re so comfy and soft… just like a teddy bear.”

“I am NOT SOFT!” Bilbo squeaked indignantly.  “Let me up!”   

His friends pouted, but they slackened their arms enough to allow him to wriggle free.  Bilbo stood and whirled around to glower at them.  He soothed out his wrinkled clothes and checked himself for bruises.  “Look,” he said, “I like pub hopping as much as the next guy.  And if it were any other night, I’d totally come with you.  But I really _am_ behind in my homework – thanks to you, I might add – so I need a weekend in to catch up.  Maybe next time.”

Elrohir sat up, his legs extended before him and his shoulders hunched, making him appear like a petulant child throwing a tantrum.  “But it’s not the same without you.  No one else can keep pace with us, or outdrink Legolas.”

“And no one else knows as many dirty drinking songs as you do,” Elladan added, copying his sibling’s stance.

“Clearly no one else has any sense of responsibility either,” Bilbo retorted, rolling his eyes.  He picked up his chair and settled himself back in place.  “I think I liked you better last time,” he muttered.  “I swear - you’re worse than Fili and Kili.”

“What did you say?” the twins asked.

Bilbo blinked, unable to comprehend their question.  He hadn’t said anything, had he?  He checked his memory and frowned.  “N-nothing.  Forget it.”  He grabbed his notebook, found his long-lost pen, and began to write without purpose.

Had he compared his real, flesh-and-blood friends to their _imaginary_ counterparts?  Why had he likened them to another set a brothers, who were mere illusions, remnants of childish dreams?

Bilbo shook his head and reprimanded himself for those foolish ideas.  He had ceased to dwell on the visions and nightmares years ago, refusing to let them be a hindrance in his life.  They held no value for him, bringing neither wisdom nor peace.  Their only function had been to make him melancholy and lonely.  For that reason, he had decided to ignore and suppress those fantasies, to treat them like a chronic but minor disease that came and went at random.

It didn’t matter that they stirred something wild and aching but _alive_ within him.  He wouldn’t credit those delusions with the depth they added to his love for others, or the courage they instilled in him to pursue his passions.  He refused to give in the ridiculous sense that this life was not his first.

So what if some activities came easier for him?  He was a talented man; he wasn’t building on skills he had already learned.  And so what if he knew his family, friends and acquaintances on a more intimate level than they knew him?  He was very perceptive; he was _not_ recognizing expressions and quirks that he had spent another lifetime memorizing.

His parents, his “nephew”, and his roommates… they did NOT exist in another world or another life – and neither did he.

Because if but some chance they did... so too, might a certain dwarf king.

“Bilbo,” said one of the boys, “We’re sorry for all that.  But we _are_ worried about you.”

“Mm-hmm,” agreed the other.  “We know you’re working hard, but you’ve been so closed off lately.  We just want to spend time with you.”

Bilbo turned around again and observed their faces with cautious surprise.  They appeared to be genuinely bothered by his harsh dismissal, and their features had taken on the more mature and grave elegance he subconsciously associated with their other selves.

‘ _Knock it off_ ,’ Bilbo scolded his stimulated psyche.   _‘There are no “other” selves.’_

Elladan and Elrohir simultaneously stood and sat on Bilbo’s bed beside the desk.  

“We won’t make you come with us,” Elrohir sighed.  “But at least _talk_ to us.  You’ve been having nightmares.”

“Don’t deny it,” Elladan warned, knowing that Bilbo’s next words would be just that.  “We can hear you whimpering and moving around in your sleep.”

“And ever since they’ve started, you’ve been behaving differently.  One minute you seem detached from everything around you, and the next, you walk around like the weight of the world is on your shoulders.”  Elrohir smiled kindly.  The look in his eyes was imploring and sad.  “You’re our friend, Bilbo.  If there’s something bothering you, we want to help.  Even if all you need is someone to listen for a while, we’ll be here.  I’ll even gag Elladan so he keeps his mouth shut while you talk.”

Elladan responded by smacking Elrohir on the back of the head.  

The boys began to bicker, causing Bilbo to sigh and grin.  Then he pondered their proposal.   

It was a tempting offer.  If he was being honest with himself, it _was_ mentally draining to separate his thoughts from the perceptions generated by his dream self.  And during the singular moments when he _did_ reflect on those images, he was overpowered by guilt and grief, becoming a prisoner in an endless loop of “what ifs” and “if only-s”.  Sharing his troubles might very well prove to be a sufficient remedy for his frazzled nerves.  If he brought trusted friends into his confidence, they could anchor him to the present, and help him separate fact from fiction.

On the other hand, they might just as well behave according to his deepest fears.  They could turn their backs on him, suspicious of his rationality.  He’d be labeled “Mad Baggins” (again), and would likely endure isolation, eventually becoming resigned to an existence devoid of meaningful relationships.  Or worse yet, they might believe him, and come to the same conclusion he had concerning the misdeeds that haunted him.  They would point out his weaknesses, his selfishness, and his overall insensitivity in the matters that had been beyond his comprehension.

It was a risk he could not take.

“Guys… guys!”  He waved his hands and glared at them until their arguing died away.  When he had their attention, he said, “Look, I appreciate what you’re trying to do.  And you’re right, I _have_ been having nightmares.  But it’s no big deal; I’ve had them since I was a kid.  I think stress triggers them… which is the why you should let me study.  Once I’m caught up on all my assignments, I’m sure everything will settle down.”

Should he be worried about how proficient he had become at lying?  His roommates were not the first to ask him about his constitution, and they would not be the last.  The real challenge lay in keeping his stories straight so that no one tried to dig too deep beyond the surface.  Then again, he hadn’t met or heard of anyone who might have the same affliction, so he had no reason to be paranoid of someone guessing the truth.  It was just the easiest solution.

In spite of his smooth explanation, neither Elladan nor Elrohir were convinced.  In fact, they gave him identical looks that seemed to say, _‘Really?  That’s the best you could come up with?’_   

Elladan turned his head and crossed his arms.  “Bilbo, if you don’t trust us, just come right out and say it.”

Elrohir nodded.  “Still hurts, but it’s better than your constant evasion.”

Bilbo blinked, astonished by the accusation.  He scrubbed a hand over his face.  “It’s not that I don’t trust you,” he insisted quietly.  “It’s just… it’s not something I’ve ever felt comfortable talking about – or even thinking about it.  And I don’t know that it has a resolution or a purpose, so it seems uselss to bring it up.  I just have to deal with it, that’s all.”  He raised his shoulders in a half-hearted shrug.  “I’m sorry if I get moody because of that.  I’ll try not to let it bother you, or get me down too much.”

Elrohir huffed and threw up his hands.  “Always with the melodrama.  We’re not saying you need to be sunshine and rainbows all the time, Bilbo.  We don’t like seeing you so unhappy, but you don’t have to pretend to be anything you’re not.  If you need time alone to process through something, we’ll leave you be… or be here for you.  That’s all we’re saying.”

“Still, I hope you don’t mind if we try to cheer you up anyway.  You’re much cuter when you smile,” Elladan concluded.

Bilbo glanced back and forth between them.  As much as they joked around, they truly were a good sort, and he believed their clichéd pronouncements of friendship and love were sincere.  And if it was a “normal” problem, he probably _would_ take advantage of their offer.  But even if he did fully trust them, he was not going to oust himself as a mental case without serious cause or provocation.  He’d just as soon save it for his deathbed confession.

Yet at the same time, he was sure that the twins’ sentimental speech was meant to manipulate him into giving in to their original request.  A close examination of Elladan’s sappy expression betrayed their motive; he wasn’t able to subdue the twinkle in eyes as well as the slightly more serious Elrohir.

Bilbo threw back his head with a loud moan, and crumpled in his chair.  “Ugh… fine!  I’ll go pub hopping with you!”

“Yay!” they cheered.

Elladan threw his arms around his brother’s shoulders, hugging him triumphantly.  “Told you he’d cave!  First round of shots is on you!”

Apparently, Elrohir wasn’t bothered by that.  “You won’t regret this, Bilbo!  We’ve got everything all worked out.  Lindir’s driving, and Legolas is going to join us for dinner at Farmer M’s Roadhouse.  After that, we’ll meet up with some _friends_ at Butterbur’s Brew and see where things go from there.”

Bilbo immediately picked up on the emphasized word.  “Friends?  What friends?”

“Oh, mostly classmates.”  Elrohir ticked off names with his fingers.  “Tuor, Idril, Bifur, Asphodel, Lily, Eluréd, and Elurín for sure.  More may turn up as we go.”

Elladan dropped one arm from around his twin and tapped his chin.  “Didn’t Eluréd say their sister was coming too?”

Elrohir snapped his fingers.  “Oh right.  Cute little thing.  Ornithology major.  And I think Bifur’s cousin is town – said he needed a break from his woodworking projects.”

Bilbo scowled at Elrohir.  “No.  Absolutely not.”

The twins stopped musing and blinked innocently.  “What?” they asked together.

“You are NOT using this as an opportunity to set me up on blind dates.”

“Aww come one!  It’s not like we’re going to ditch you with them.  Think of it as a chance to meet new people,” Elladan volunteered.  

“Expand your horizons,” Elrohir elaborated.  “And forget about that ‘Thorin’ you’re always mooning over but refuse to talk about.”

The color drained from Bilbo’s face.  “W-what are you talking about?  I don’t know anyone named ‘Thorin’.  And I’m certainly not _mooning_ over him.”

Elrohir raised his brows.  “Oh?  Then who is that?”  He waved to the notebook paper Bilbo had been writing in earlier.

Bilbo looked down at what he had thought were his notes on the song translation.  It may have started out that way, but his focus had waned, and he had started to doodle in the margins.  It wasn’t a very detailed or realistic drawing – more like a little cartoon.  But there was no mistaking who it was meant to be, even if he hadn’t scrawled “Thorin” in a heart beneath it.

“Oh – that.”  Bilbo laughed uneasily.  “That’s nothing.  I’ve been playing around with different styles for my Studio Art minor.  Sometimes I draw on my assignments if I’m having trouble concentrating.  Like when my annoying roommates won’t leave me alone.”  He managed to mask his embarrassment with a teasing frown.

Elrohir seemed ready to press the issue, but Elladan superseded him before he could speak.  “Alright, alright, point taken.  We’ll leave you for a while so you can work.  We’ll be back to abduct you – I mean, _pick you up_ \- around…” He glanced at the round clock on the wall.  “Let’s say seven o’clock.  We’ll make ourselves scarce until then.”  He stood and pulled on his brother’s arm.  “Come on, Elro.  Let’s go see what Arathorn is up to.”

Elrohir’s grey eyes bore into Bilbo’s, as though trying to read his thoughts, but he nodded and allowed his twin to drag him to his feet.  “Right.  I’ll meet you downstairs; I need to grab a few things.”

“Suit yourself.”  Elladan snatched his wallet from their bedside table and made a hasty exit.

An awkward silence prevailed for about a minute.  Bilbo eventually broke it to inquire, “Was there something else, Elrohir?”

The younger sibling shook his head slowly.  “I was going to ask you that.  But unlike Elladan, I can take a hint.”  He approached and touched Bilbo’s shoulder.  “I hope you know that we meant what we said earlier.  We’ll be here for you when you’re ready to tell us what’s really going on.”

Instead of contradicting him again, Bilbo smiled and squeezed the long fingers resting on his deltoid.  “I know.  And… thank you.”  He decided to leave it at that.

Elrohir stared at him for a few more seconds.  Then he grabbed what he needed and left to follow his brother.

Bilbo released a full exhale, feeling like he had been holding his breath for most of the conversation, particularly after Thorin’s inconvenient intrusion.

He ripped the graffitied page out of his notebook and gazed at the series of pen strokes that completed the unintentional sketch.  His mind filled in the monochromatic likeness with strands of silver amidst the black mane and eyes as blue as the sky on a cloudless day.

His roommates were cognizant of his reluctance to familiarize himself with new acquaintances, but of course, he hadn’t explained his rationale for it.  It had taken almost the entirety of their first year together for him to get over the impossibility of meeting some of the specters of his dreams.  And when subtle observations led him to conclude that they had no prior association (or memory) of him, it required considerable effort to disconnect them from the elves he had envisioned as a child.

If his “memories” were real, and Thorin was out there somewhere, what would that mean for him… for them?  Would he be just as clueless as Elladan, Elrohir, Legolas, and the few others he’d met so far?  Would he remember Bilbo’s sins against him in their final days together?

Why was Bilbo plagued by these visions and memories, if that is what they were?  Was there some greater destiny or design to all this?  If so, what higher power would ordain such a fate without a clear sign?  Why did he seem to be the only one tormented by the knowledge of lives fully lived?

“What do you want from me?” he demanded out loud.  He aimed his question at the drawing, but intended it for anyone that might be listening.  Predictably, there was no response.

Bilbo snarled, crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it in a nearby trash bin.  He set his elbows upon the desk and bowed his head into his hands.

“They’re not real,” he murmured firmly.  “They mean nothing to me.”  They were harsh statements, but they had become a sort of mantra over the years during periods of great stress and confusion.  Willful defiance seemed to be the only way to console himself.  The alternative was just too painful.

Bilbo dropped his arms to his sides and flexed his fingers back and forth into fists.  He rolled his neck and straightened his spine.

He had a lot of work to do, and since he had given in to the twins’ conspiracy, there was less time available.  He would also need to shower and make himself at least somewhat presentable and sociable.

And who knows?  Perhaps he _would_ have a good time, or one of the “friends” Elladan and Elrohir wanted him to meet might spark his interest.

Although, such a prospect presupposed that he would be able to judge them by their own merits, rather than compare them to the standard set by Thorin Oakenshield.  It would take a deliberate choice to center his attention upon his friends and companions, and not waste his time searching for a pair of captivating blue eyes in the crowd of pub patrons.

Bilbo would never admit it, but deep inside, he knew that any attempt to escape the memory of Thorin was an exercise in futility.  He was a shade that never dissipated, and a lost love to whom he was inexplicably bound.

And if Bilbo truly searched his own heart, he would learn that _he_ was the one who would not let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued...

**Author's Note:**

> To be continued...


End file.
